Drabbles: Down
by Selenology
Summary: A series of drabbles based around the theme "down". Will be added to as the muse strikes.
1. Down, down, down

Drabble word count: 200

Spoilers for Season 4.10: Heaven and Hell

**Down, down, down**

_I told you I'd see you_, he said. _I promised I'd kill you._

_You deserve it_, he said. _Why shouldn't I do it?_

_If it's not me it'll be someone else, _he said_. It's par for the course._

_We belong here_, he said. _I'll make it quick. _

It was never quick.

He tore into Bela and she was crying. She cried.

Dean twisted and then he was falling. For a moment he felt like he was dropping from purgatory's web again, down, down, down into the pit, but in a second he hit the dirty floor of the motel room instead.

He gasped and gagged once, clenching his teeth to keep the contents of his stomach in its place. From the other bed he could hear Sam moving as he woke.

"Dean?" came his little brother's hesitant voice, blankets rustling as he sat up. Sam's eyes moved over the bed, found him missing, then caught him on the floor. "Hey!" He made as if to jump out of bed.

"Never mind me, Sammy," said Dean with a weak grin, waving away his brother's concern. "Just took a little fall." He dropped his head to the floor. "Go back to sleep."


	2. Lockdown

Word count: 200

No spoilage

**Lockdown**

The local newspaper – situated on the top floor of an ugly, old office building – turned out to be a bust. Loosening his tie, Dean angrily stomped into the empty elevator, frustrated by time wasted on a flaky reporter and his insane ramblings on Spring-heeled Jacks who could apparently teleport, and ate only carrot cake with ground-up, human tongue. The idiot had suffered him through elaborate charts before Dean managed to get the hell out.

One floor down, the elevator opened to let in a red-headed secretary-type with her hair in a bun and a stack of folders under her arm.

Two more floors and the elevator lurched to a stop and the lights blinked and crapped out. Dean grabbed the young woman's arm before she could fall off her heels.

"Thanks," she said, looking up at him. He smiled reassuringly at her, then headed over to the emergency phone. Stan the mechanic told them he'd have them out in an hour. Two, max.

"Looks like we have some time to kill," Dean said to his companion in lockdown. He slouched against the wall and crossed one foot over the other.

"Looks like," she said, and licked her lips.

Dean grinned.


	3. Down on the Floor

Drabble word count: 805

No Spoilage

**Down on the Floor**

Cursing, Dean stalked into the motel room and grabbed his bag.

He'd been sure he'd put it in the hidden level of the glove compartment in the Impala – that's where he hid all the shit he didn't want Sam to find – but it hadn't been there and he'd gone over the entire car – back seat, trunk, hell, even under the hood – and it definitely wasn't there.

He'd won the 300 dollar watch during a surprisingly challenging pool game the night before. Considering his opponent had been completely shitfaced and had at one awkward moment cried real tears into his beer, Dean had expected the match to be easy-breezy, but he'd had to bust out all his moves to beat the guy. Thankfully his mark, in all his rumpled suit and drunken mumblings, had been too apathetic to care about losing the watch and another wad of cash to Dean. Dean had celebrated his acquiring Sam's birthday present by getting liberally drunk himself. He still had the headache to prove it.

And now he couldn't remember where he'd put the damn thing.

He emptied his bag over the bed and rummaged through the mixture of clean and dirty clothes. He went through the pockets in all his jeans, even the one he hadn't worn for weeks, then tossed them aside. Frowning, he picked out a bloodied sock and wondered _when the hell did I bleed into my shoe?_

When his bag turned up nothing he grabbed Sam's and overturned it on the other bed. Maybe a pair of his pants had ended up in Sam's stuff? Maybe he'd been wearing one of Sam's shirts? _"Shit shit shit,"_ Dean chanted under his breath as he raged through the clothes and came up with zilch. He was down on his knees looking under the bed when Sam came in.

Looking at the chaos of strewn clothes and Dean tossing boxers and socks over his shoulder from where he was crouched, Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Dude, what the hell are you doing?" he asked, taken aback.

Dean crashed his head against the nightstand – which did _not_ help the headache at all – then sat on the back of his heels to look up at Sam. "Jus' looking for something," he mumbled, rubbing his head.

"In _my_ bag?" Sam questioned, annoyed now. "Man, we just packed all this shit!"

"Yeah, yeah, princess. I'll clean it up," Dean muttered, thinking frantically where else he could look. _Did he hide the thing in the bathroom? Behind the toilet? Did he lose it? Did someone steal it off him at the bar? Damn, that guy–_

Sam reached out an arm to pick one of his hoodies off the TV and Dean started snapping "Just leave it, you–", when he froze as he saw the shiny new addition to Sam's wrist.

"What the fuck…!" He jumped up and stalked over to his brother, grabbing Sam's wrist.

"Hey!" Sam protested the manhandling.

"Where'd you get this?!" Dean demanded, holding Sam's wrist up to him and pointing at the watch. "It was supposed to be a present!"

Sam blinked at him, then the corners of his mouth slowly turned up. "Don't you remember coming home last night?" he asked slyly.

Dean paused to consider this. Sure he did, didn't he? He was drunk, he got in, he went to bed. Like he always did. Right? "Uuuhh, sure?" he ventured.

Sam grinned wickedly. "Yeah? You remember you sat on my bed, held my hand and gave me that watch, told me I was just the best brother ever? The most beautiful and unique snowflake you ever knew? You told me you _just love me so much, man_, and you wanted to do something special for my very special birthday because I'm just so damn special? I think you cried a little at that point, remember?"

"_I did not cry!_" Dean spluttered, horrified. Now that he thought about it, a little something of waxing maudlin at Sam's bedside did seem to come back to him. _Damn it, exactly how much did he drink?_

"Yeah," said Sam, reminiscing. "Right before you fell asleep snuggled in my lap. By the way, who's Marla?"

Dean backed away. "Don' remember so it never happened," he grunted, shifty-eyed. "And if you ever mention this again, I'll cut you up and feed you to a Wendigo." He stalked to the door, hearing Sam sniggering at his back. Gnashing his teeth, he realised his face was aflame with heat.

"Dean," Sam called at his back as he pulled open the door, and Dean turned around with a thunderous expression.

"_What?!_"

"Thanks for the watch, man. I love it."

Dean grimaced at Sam's sincere face. "Yeah. Don't mention it."

Sam grinned and opened his mouth.

"Seriously. Ever," Dean growled as he slammed the door behind him.


End file.
